


Ignis Aurum Probat

by romanitas



Category: The Book Thief - Markus Zusak, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1721915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanitas/pseuds/romanitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a small list of people whom Death finds fascinating. Hazel Levesque is one of them. He carries them all at least once, but oh so rarely does he carry them twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignis Aurum Probat

**Author's Note:**

> for [beth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kaikamahine/pseuds/antistar_e), because there are never enough _book thief_ crossovers and i guess i can’t yell at you to write all of them. but as suggested - this is a _book thief_ mashup of sorts, with Death as narrator against the curious daughter of pluto reborn.

i.

In 1941, there are no shortages of death. The numbers are high and scattered across the globe. War does keep him busy.

The peculiar one takes him to Alaska, on an island that shouldn’t exist. There are in actuality two to be taken tonight, but it’s the child that draws the most attention. Her eyes are gold like the earth he knows she can command, her hair is soft and curled. She’s a tiny thing, though not the tiniest he’s met today. She’s thirteen years young, and her bloodline is recognizable. He’s met so many of them, these children of the gods, at such terribly youthful ages. 

It seems a bit sad, to take her, if sadness were part of what he does. Her potential seems wasted, cut off before fully realized. Suffocation is never pretty, but he extends the privacy of the moment as best as possible. Hazel Levesque willingly brings death upon herself and her mother, and Death can feel the exact moment he’s needed. 

There’s recognition in her eyes that goes far beyond how most humans take to viewing him. And acceptance. Hazel accepted her death the moment she realized what was happening beneath the surface of this island and what she could do to stop it. It’s admirable, which isn’t a word he’s been able to apply in years. She comes to him willingly, and it’s always so much easier when they do that. 

(Her mother passes first, a fact she is unaware of, a fact Death does not feel the need to clarify.) 

It is the first time he takes her soul. It will not be the last.

{ _an interlude_ , .i}

The first time Death sees her, he can sense the Underworld inside her core, straight into her bones; he passes right by her, and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, like she can see him. 

Perhaps she can. But she rushes down the stairs and out the building without sparing him a second glance. It’s only when she returns home much later, after school and after the skies are dark, that she hears of her neighbor’s passing from her mother, remarking simply with an, “I know.”

Children of Hades, or Pluto as it stands, have always seen him at least once before their time, but this one doesn’t mention their paths crossing. 

It’s the whispers echoing _witch child_ in her wake that make him suspect it’s not perhaps simple unawareness keeping her lips sealed. She’s smart to recognize that broadcasting a death sense is more harmful than good. No one ever wants him to arrive, despite the inevitability.

She seems to avoid him, after that. She avoids the homes of the elderly, skips school one afternoon when he comes for one of the nuns. He does not see her so directly again until 1941, though if he could sense himself coming, he might head in the opposite direction, too. 

ii.

When Death comes for Sammy Valdez, it’s a sweltering summer day in Texas, and he can hear too many people complaining about how the heat is going to kill them. It’s funny, if that would be the proper word for it, because it’s going to kill some of them, but definitely not all of them.

He’s such an old man, but he’s ready and prepared as anyone can be. He won’t be difficult to carry.

Sammy looks up, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Before I go anywhere with you,” he starts, daring to point a finger at him. “I know this girl, and her story’s just not done, you hear?”

Some stories don’t get to finish, is his careful reminder. 

But Sammy is having none of that. He laughs at Death, but it turns into the cough that will be his last. “Hers will,” he says, with such confidence that for a moment Death actually believes him. “It’s been paused. But it’ll start right on up. When you see her again, tell her I done my best.”

One last question: who?

“Hazel,” he sighs affectionately. There’s slight regret in it, too, but very few greet him without any. “She’s got hardship ahead of her. Don’t you dare get in her way.”

Hazel Levesque. He hasn’t thought about the child in years. He can make no promises of Sammy’s request, however, because Hazel is someone he has already carried away, light in his arms and far too accepting, with eyes worth more than any gold in a treasury.

As he lifts Sammy Valdez gently, he wonders if perhaps the two of them will finally be reunited. 

iii.

It’s the start of the twenty-first century when Death feels her return, and no one could be blamed for the slight stumble, however much it is the first he can recall being so violently caught off guard. 

People simply do not return the same as they were before. Oh, he knows the rules of rebirth and abides, but this is not a rebirth. This is the same child of the gods he escorted decades ago, walking alive back on Earth as if she had never left. 

He feels cheated. 

But he doesn’t go for her. There’s something intrinsic warning him that right now is not her time. (Besides, hadn’t it already passed?)

Still, it’s hard to ignore, not when he remembers her death and the way she could see right through him. Her name on Sammy Valdez’s lips, recent enough to still be a fresh memory. 

Her eyes, gold and bright and powerful, they never did quite stop following him around. They were such a unique color, soft yet hard-edged at the same time, a gentleness despite the type of force her siblings of the Underworld usually bring. 

She looks over her shoulder at a constant, watching for him and ready to run. He kind of wants to tell her that he’s not chasing, but doing so would mean he must start. 

It’s best to leave her be, for the time being. 

It is her return, however, that alerts him to greater forces at play. He does not and will never carry the monsters into Tartarus, but the Doors of Death have slipped. Death, lowercase, isn’t sticking. 

This is what has allowed that brother of hers to bring her back, why there is no point in attempting to right the mistake of her return. He wonders how many other particular and peculiar circumstances will be brought to light on the cusp of these circumstances. There is another war for these half-god children, barely months after the other has finished, and he will be busy. War always keeps him so. Humans don’t change in that regard (nor do, apparently, the gods).

The trend continues, and though it’s mostly just monsters taking advantage of the situation, there are several cases where mortality is fickle (a speared Centurion, Gwen, they called her – whether or not it was her time was uncertain, another casualty of the Doors slipping, and it’s frustrating to be so imprecise.)

It’s the easiest his job has been in years – his arms are light without any weight to carry – though it’s very uncomfortable. There are rules to abide, and he is a fact of life – or at least, the end of life.

iv.

The doors are closed. Hazel herself takes care of one side, despite knowing what it might mean for her life. It’s a very brave thing, but Death has always known this girl as a near model and epitome of bravery.

It’s strange to think it’s not yet her time, when he has already carried her once. He thought he might have needed to come for her friends, those who closed the doors from the other side, trapped in hell – but their time fluctuates most curiously, like he can’t quite pinpoint it from one day to the next. When he stops to consider it, their lives have always been more uncertain, since the day they were born.

Choices, he thinks – when these children of the gods make choices, it offers delay or brings their time even closer. So few in the world manage that, and there has always been something fascinating about watching their lives unfold as he waits to meet them.

And he thinks how interesting it might be, to keep watching Hazel’s unfold, especially against what he has already witnessed of her second chance. This powerful girl who can shake the earth and manipulate perceptions. It’s almost terrifying to think of how much stronger she will be given the years. 

v.

There is a moment in the midst of their war against the Earth when Hazel’s eyes meet his, and she dares to step in front of him. He holds her gaze for perhaps a second too long, but it’s the way they darken at him that keeps him still – it’s not the usual brightness he remembers, but perhaps something dangerous. It’s a good color, highlights that ferocity he always felt inside her. Behind her, his intended soul for the evening, Frank Zhang – he struggles, desperately holding on to the flimsy piece of wood. He doesn’t know whether to admire or admonish Juno for her interference.

Hazel is not his target, and she seems to know that, but it hasn’t stopped her from her own interference. “No,” she hisses, the word surging through her like she’s issuing an order of her rank; daughter of Pluto, of wealth and riches, with her steadfast refusal to adhere to the laws of Death many times over. 

“Hazel?” It’s him, on his knees and cradling the wood as the embers eat it away; it’s in his own eyes, he’s counting down the time he has left. 

She glares at Death, and he sees a flash of her brother, that other boy who didn’t like to play by the rules. Perhaps he’s influenced her. Or perhaps she’s always had that spark, simply without means to let it out. 

She turns her back on him, drops besides Frank and snatches the wood from his hands amidst protests – “Hazel, stop, you’ll burn yourself!” – and she clutches it tight, cringing as the flames sizzle against her skin. It burns, painfully so, but she holds on tight until it’s out and the scorched wood rests in her hands, where she holds it like it’s more precious than any of the metals under her control.

And just like that, this boy Frank’s time is extended once more, but the burns on her hands are permanent. No one escapes bending the rules of death unscathed. 

Frank is making attempts to scold her, but she’s having none of it. In fact, she turns, the look on her face daring Death to come any closer. Her experience in dealing with him is greater than most, perhaps too great, because he knows she would fight against him now – not even for her own sake, but for the young man she sits besides. No one has blended the line between life and death so finely as Hazel Levesque, and no one would risk so much like she is now. The son of Mars owes much to her mere existence. 

She is so much smaller than him, but her presence is greater in this moment. 

vi.

He remembers when the children used to call her ‘witch child,’ as a derogatory, as an insult – the way they’d try to steal her lunch and torment her for matters far beyond her control. He took souls lost at the expense of her diamonds, listening as they cursed Marie Levesque to hell and back. 

He remembers the diamonds and remembers the temptation to lift one up himself, to turn it over and watch the way it painted the ground. 

He remembers the way she refused Elysium for her mother’s sake and wonders what it takes of a human being to be so selfless. 

He remembers the way she defied him, saved the life of her friend. How he knows she would do it again and again. How she has done it, so many times over.

He remembers all this as he lingers at the peripheral of battle, watching Hazel Levesque tear up the ground and listening as Gaea herself cries out in pain. This is the untapped power he sensed within her, and Death is grateful she is so good a person wielding it. She uses what she’s learned from the goddess Hecate at the same time, tricking Giants and beasts alike, and he knows this battle would be impossible without her – he would be carrying far more if not for the way this child of the Underworld fights tooth and nail, because she knows what it’s like to lose everything and your life. 

She is so ferocious in her refusal to lose it again. She is viciously protective, and perhaps ‘witch child’ could be re-purposed into something that sends the other children running instead of her. Her eyes haven’t lost any of the gentleness, but they’ve gained a strength that deepens the gold, gives them a vivid wildness that can easily come back down into the warmth in them he first noticed. She is the youngest of these seven, but he knows the way she looks over all of them is a particular motherly brand of determined. He thinks she might kill for every one of them. 

She has come a long way, since he first carried her. 

vii.

She is sixteen years old when Death stumbles upon her again. It’s in passing. Hazel melts out of the shadows and clutches her head, grumbling something about how traveling between New York and California so quickly will never stop feeling weird. 

He is invisible to the others, modern day Romans going about their daily business, but Hazel spots him right away. She watches him, and there’s something of a warning in her eyes (dark patches in the gold, it’s similar to the way she glared at him when he came for that son of Mars the first time around). 

He thinks about smiling, but she runs off, presumably to find the young man. 

It’s a smart move, though Frank Zhang is not losing his life today. He walks through the streets of New Rome and thinks about the old Rome. There are far less bodies abandoned in corners, there is far less disease. His job is the same as always, and they are still Romans. They always put up a fight on their way out, sometimes even as he carries them, their flailing limbs and attempted punches bringing no pain. 

It’s very Roman indeed, the way Hazel Levesque has continued to fight him, keeps her friends safe in a way edging on terrifying – she uses her power for their sake more than her own. She embodies the nature of her home. 

viii.

If Hazel is curious, her brother is too. Death can remember when he was born, thinking his life exceptionally long for a child of Hades. Especially when compared (initially) to the life of his sister. 

They have grown much closer over the years, such a tiny family. They never miss his arrival, whether they are together or apart. Hazel is the one who greets him much more defensively, though the look in Nico’s eyes is quite similar – children of death are never his biggest fans, despite how closely tied they are. 

He likes to imagine they will know when he is coming for them, more acutely than most. Whether that’s for the better or not remains to be seen.

Nico can control the dead, but he cannot control death, and that was a fact he spent much of his life coming to terms with. But it’s so rarely his own life he’s concerned with, and that is something he shares with Hazel. They are much more alike than they realize. 

They watch him carefully whenever he appears, constantly on guard. They respect and adhere to his job, but they are both rule breakers, too; they both dance at his feet, and he knows if he came for one of them, the other would not hesitate to strike back. They are survivors of the best kind, fighters against awful odds, and they have come out stronger for it. And he would know – he has seen and carried many of their siblings in the past. Death is rarely welcome (a fact he is also quite aware of), and their own blood ties them both to it, surrounding their lives in it much more than the average human.

But they have grown into each other, a mournful link at best turned into genuine affection and smiles. They have grown into a relationship Death wonders if he should be jealous of – he has a place in them and no place at all. He is excluded despite the inherent connection. 

Humans create families, and they find them, too. It’s a fascinating and admirable trait, the way it sneaks upon them even when they don’t think they need it. When it takes them months, or even years, to realize the closeness they stumble upon. Hazel and Nico have both lost much, but they have found something new and valuable in each other, and Death does like the way he smiles at his sister. 

ix.

He catches her in passing for years. Hazel Levesque is carefully living her life and growing older than the both of them ever thought possible. There are several occasions when he thinks he will have to come for her again, that her return was perhaps a mistake, but all that happens instead is another year, another birthday, and before Death even realizes, Hazel has reached the age of thirty. 

It’s extraordinary, for numerous reasons. Half-bloods live dangerous lives, for one. Her father and the power she wields is the second. How many children of those three had he carried before they even reached the double digits in age? What a life, to gift upon their sires, the rawness of their power limited by their high mortality rates. And he is oh so familiar with mortality. It’s his job. Thirdly, he never expected her to grow beyond the youthful thirteen, but she has defied so many rules. 

She reaches thirty. Her brother, thirty-one. That boy, the one to survive Tartarus, has reached thirty-three and has a young daughter, though perhaps boy is no longer the proper word choice so much as _man_. Whenever these godlings have their own children, Death must commend them for reaching such a tremendous milestone. He usually carries them when they are still but children themselves. 

Hazel is still small, but she is hardened. There are flecks of her past in her eyes, the memories of the battles she’s fought and the death she once died, but despite everything, they still have not lost their hope. He has seen the spectrum and brightness of hope dissipate quickly, in the eyes of humans of all ages, but Hazel has held on steadfast. She has seen the worst of people and the worst of the world, but her determination lights up the gold with something like sunshine. She will not be ruled over. She will always fight back. Perhaps he should have realized this when the cave collapsed around her, when she chose her own death the first time. Hazel is a fighter and she believes the best of people. She cradles the daughter of Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase in her arms with a softness in her gaze, but the scars on her arms show even the most casual of onlookers the lengths she would go to defend this child, or anyone else she deems worthy of her love.

She has not lost her softness, merely gained a powerful means to protect it. 

Considering the life she has led, it’s impressive. Her entire presence has left a mark on him. And Death is not so often impressed. 

x.

It takes him by surprise when he realizes she has a child of her own. A daughter, who catches his glance in passing – brown eyes, not quite like her mother’s but alive and curious all the same. Seconds later, Hazel notices him as well, and she cradles the girl into her chest. There’s a hostility in her glare he’d forgotten humans were capable of – it’s doubly jarring in that shade of gold, as if they’re about to catch fire. She has lost nothing of that spunk, and he has no doubt she would try to run him through if he came any closer.

He turns, leaving them be. He has no business with this daughter of death, nor her own daughter, but there is an old man waiting for him above the corner mart down the street. 

Behind him, Hazel does not relax, but he thinks she comes to a realization: she may seem him often, again, but she will know the moment when he comes for her implicitly. But he comes to his own realization at the same time: Hazel Levesque will never go before she is ready.

xi.

He thinks about her sometimes, even though his encounters with Hazel have slimmed tremendously. It’s a good sign for her well being – the fewer opportunities they have to cross paths, the more fulfilling her life should be. She must be – forty, fifty? Time is not so precisely linear in his book. 

He carries her cousins, her far distant relatives, half-bloods without her strength and stamina, just as he would carry all humans. Their life expectancy has increased, though he has no time to conclude why. It’s nice to see so many more of them fully grown. They are less confused and broken when he takes them with a whole life behind them instead of merely a neglected childhood.

He wonders what she is doing. Does she still ride her horse? Does her glare still stop enemies in their tracks? She figured out years and years ago how to shield herself from him with the Mist – it’s not perfect, but if he were to track her down, it would not be easy to break through. It makes it harder to follow her life as he might have hoped. It might be a small regret of his own to carry.

He carried her once already, and he knows he will do so again, but he allows himself to think that perhaps if anyone deserved a second chance at life, it is this woman. 

xii.

When Death comes for Hazel Levesque the second time, she is old. She is beautiful and small, but even at this age, he can sense the power in her, and he can see in her body the lines of a life well lived. 

She laughs, when she sees him, and if he were so inclined, he might have smiled. “It’s about damn time,” she says, greeting him like a friend she hasn’t seen in years, when really, she’s stumbled across him far more than most. 

Again, he almost smiles. 

“Spent my whole life avoiding you,” she says, without an ounce of regret. “But I know more than most you can’t run forever.”

He has one question, though it’s strange to feel the need to ask it out of respect. Are you ready?

She laughs again, then looks over at one of the pictures on her nightstand. Seven young heroes, alive and smiling and bloodied, a lifetime ago, but Death remembers it well. He remembers all of them; he remembers the ones he has already carried, the ones that are still waiting for him. He remembers Hazel and her spite, each time she lost a friend, but an increasing understanding for what he does as she grappled with her grief. 

“I am,” she says at last, sighing. It’s heavy, but she’s smiling, and he cannot help the way he looks into her eyes once more. There are wrinkles at the corners, dark bags under them, but the gold is the same as it has always been, even if her hair has gone grey. They are youthful despite her age, dazzling and hypnotic and still full of hope, and Death does not think he will ever see a pair of eyes quite like hers ever again. 

The second time he carries her, Hazel is much more at peace. She sinks into his arms with the very same acceptance of the first time, only now there are far less regrets. 

He has only seen specks of it first hand, but she has truly lived such a marvelous life.


End file.
